Photo Credit: Pittsburgh Post-Gazette

The February 2^nd celebration grew out of Candlemas, a Christian tradition where clergy bless and distribute candles for winter. The Germans took Candlemas a step further and added a weather-predicting animal. They first chose a bear, but when their numbers dwindled, they selected the badger. When the Pennsylvania Dutch immigrated from Europe, they brought the tradition with them but replaced the badger with the locally abundant groundhog. 

Although other furry weather prognosticators are scattered across the country, the crowned prince of February 2^nd lives in Pennsylvania. Although the earliest mention of the day appears in a February 2, 1840, diary entry of a man living in Pennsylvania Dutch Country, the first on the record mention was in 1886 in the Punxsutawney Spirit. The newspaper based in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania. A year later, the first official celebration was held a couple of miles outside of town on a hill known as Gobbler's Knob. Members of the Punxsutawney Elks Lodge traveled to the hill every year to consult with the groundhog, who, if he saw his shadow returned to his den because winter was going to last six more weeks. If his shadow was absent, spring was on its way. In 1899 the Elks handed off responsibilities to the Groundhog Day Club. Members of the club’s Inner Circle have carried on the tradition ever since. In 1961 the groundhog took on the name Phil. 

Our family had more than just a casual relationship with the celebration. My wife and I are fans of the 1993 movie Groundhog Day, starring Bill Murray, and somehow passed along our enthusiasm to our son, Jonathan, who began watching the movie repeatedly at a very young age. Nothing will put a smile on your face like a four-year-old shouting, "Rise and shine campers, it's Groundhog Day." We named our dog at the time Phil. When we were asked his name, we would all answer, “Phil, like the groundhog Phil,” a nod to a line from the film. In 2003, when we were living in eastern Pennsylvania and Groundhog Day fell on a Sunday, it didn't take any convincing to get everyone on board to make the trek to Punxsutawney for the weekend. 

We traveled to the area on Friday and checked into a hotel so we could take in the full two days of events. On Saturday, we walked around town and enjoyed the festivities. These included an art show where the kids had sketches done that included a groundhog, a woodcarving exhibition, and an open-air market where we ran into two top hat wearing members of the Inner Circle who gladly stood with us for a picture. This framed photo held a prominent place in all my corporate offices for the next sixteen years. 

On Sunday, to make it on time for Phil's arrival, we woke up at 3:30 am. No cars are permitted on Gobblers Knob, so anyone who wants to attend either parks in a town lot and walks over a mile, or catches one of the many available school buses. We chose a bus and arrived bundled and warm shortly after six, with plenty of time to spare before sunrise, when Phil was scheduled to make his arrival. 

At the time, Samantha was seven, and Jonathan was eleven. Chris and I thought the zero dark thirty wakeup call and standing in the cold waiting for a group of men to lift a fat furry animal out of a cage and pretend to talk to it might damper their excitement. Far from it. The anticipation of the crowning event, along with the energy of our fellow enthusiasts, kept everyone warm. Although Governor Ed Rendell's appearance wasn't as much a thrill for them as it was for me, I got a kick out of him walking by and waving to Samantha as I held her in my arms so she could get a clear look. 

After some fireworks and some folks singing and dancing across the stage, the members of the Inner Circle pulled Phil from his stump, listened for his reaction, then held him aloft and declared that he had seen his shadow and winter would remain. There was a murmur of disappointment. Not because of Phil's prediction, but because the celebration was over, and it was time to climb back on the buses for the return trip to town. Still full of energy, we decided to skip the buses and walk. We trekked back into town with Samantha on my shoulders and Chris and Jonathan alongside. 

Since the movie, the term Groundhog Day is no longer synonymous with just the celebration. Now it also means a series of irritating events that seem to occur repeatedly in the exact same way. This is because the movie’s television news meteorologist Phil Connors is not a fan of Groundhog Day and loathes his yearly assignment to cover it. Karma kicks in, and Phil relives the day over, and over, and over again. 

Regardless of Phil’s prediction, spring pretty much rolls around the same time every year, and winter pokes along at its seemingly slow pace.  This year Phil saw his shadow, predicting six more weeks of winter. When I heard this, as on most Groundhog Days, I wasn't thinking so much about Phil and his prediction, as I was the morning we spent on Gobbler’s Knob.  If someday karma traps me in a day like it did Phil Connor, I wouldn't mind it being Groundhog Day. Mainly if it was the one in 2003. The alarm going off at the ungodly hour, the bumpy school bus ride, the four of us bundled up against the crisp chill of the morning anxiously awaiting the groundhog’s arrival, me excited to point out the highest-ranking elected official in the state, and my son's less than enthusiastic response:

"Who cares. Where's Phil?"